I
thought of hands to caress a desert of grains. I thought of tears that wash
mire from eyes. I thought our melody of life: the ups raddled by impending
normalcy; the downs as to carry a modicum of promise. I thought of lovemaking;
the fact of found wanting; that want to give this rapture colored with séance.
I thought of dreams; that textured challenge; for one to give to our life of
freedoms. We rock gently this fire of traumas, as to
place faith in a longing soul; to paste a scar, as far as minds can see, while
aches throb through surface veins.
I’m threshed through with thoughts: the tender goodbyes; that welcomed
good-morning; that gesture that whispers, I
need you. We circle woes for an atypical love; to see us rising from
hell—that distant lake, this river of fluidity; as soul to fountain that
freshet of mercy grounded in trust. We love as motive to mind the good-times
sung on high, where justice is a feeling as solid as passion; the steel of our
emotions; or compassion for our aches; or that nudging question that defines
our love. As energy becomes light, to know our presence, that gray filter
becomes a royal diadem; to stress a sudden frown; or rage like hell—over our
love’s anguish. We paint to die this way. We rewrite journals, where our love
gallops to our rescue. We purpose our affairs. We never knew of love to see for love this
love etched in our neighbor’s eyes; as to want this love, to waver the doubts, to
give all of what we couldn’t possess: our latent affections; our opaque
feelings; even our headlong passions; to arouse this love, in the souls of
love, as guilty for love. I thought
of hands to caress this cherished grain. I thought of tears that rinse the
mire. I thought of love.
